The Lighter
by WretchedLust
Summary: He had only described something as "good weird" once before. Ironically enough, both things he had now categorized under that sensation led him back to the lighter. Oneshot. Triles. A fluffy-meets-serious sort of mess.


**The Lighter**

_"Do you have the lighter?"_

It was that simple question that had forever changed the way he thought about the object. To anyone else, it was just a lighter. It may even be safe to say that anyone else would consider it a piece of shit. The silver was severely scratched and the white front was fading into a dull yellow. It was too large and square to comfortably fit in your pocket. The pad to the striker was almost entirely worn down. By the time you could get it to light, the skin on your finger was usually shredded and sore. The height of the released flame was often hit or miss. Sometimes it was ample and other times much too dim to do anything with. Either way, it always blew out way too soon.

But to him, it was a memory. He remembered every detail of Tristan's question - from the leery tone in his voice to the blush that had coated the apples of his cheeks. Of course he had the lighter. He had the lighter from the very beginning. Now every time he traced the small indents in the metal he was reminded of the way Tristan's hands felt against his body. Even though there had been a layer of clothes between them, he experienced chills as if their bare skin had met for the first time. He could still remember the exact order and place that every hand print fell like Tristan's touch was permanently etched into him. Maybe he had strategically placed the lighter in his back pocket. Maybe in the end it just turned out to be a fortunate placement. He knew the answer - but he would sooner die before it'd ever leave his lips.

Yes, just like the lighter's striker he was stubborn. But that stubbornness was what pushed Tristan to stay that night. It was him lying through his teeth when Winston questioned his intentions with Tristan. It was what drove him into refusing to let Tristan go without a kiss. It only began to deteriorate when his feet met the other side of the couch and he walked towards Tristan, sending the blonde backwards into the darkness. His apprehension was made visible by the flash of lightning outside the nearby window. But both boys were so focused on each other, the sound of the roaring thunder had been temporarily muted.

Tristan's threat to kiss him was the last flick with a ruined thumb that managed to get a reaction. That spark found in his response; those two reassuring words that tipped their eyes shut and molded their mouths together.

Finally, there was the flame. It burned brighter than ever and cast a heat that couldn't be differentiated between comforting and dangerous. He could still draw up the sweet taste of Tristan on his lips, down to the faintest hint of his mint chapstick. He recalled the way Tristan's cool breath danced between them as he pulled away. It was the way the other boy's eyelids sat as they made contact one more - not completely open as if he wasn't ready to say goodbye - that had urged him to initiate another. This one was more needy, more dominant. Their lips tugged on each other's as naturally as if they had been kissing each other all their lives. He didn't intend to back the blonde up against the wall but once he realized he had he could have kept him there forever. And he would have, if Winston hadn't caught them and brought their fairy-tale moment to an awkward halt.

Initially he felt their story together had ended much too soon, much like the expectancy of the lighter's flame. All night he had tossed and turned on the living room floor, examining the figures in the darkness. To his left was Frankie - who had taken the couch- and Winston curled up in a sleeping bag on the ground underneath. To his right he saw Tristan, lost in the most peaceful sleep he had ever witnessed from a man. The only word in his limited vocabulary strong enough to capture the drive he was encountering was temptation. He was tempted to wake him up and drag him off his bedroom to finish what they had started. But he was also tempted to simply scoot closer, wrap one arm around the blonde's waist, and bask in his warmth as it lulled him to sleep. He needed to experience that blissful feeling just one last time before morning came and it was just a forgotten memory. But he was still alone when he awoke in the morning, and if he hadn't have found Tristan outside he was sure his heart would have stopped beating entirely. Tristan's skepticism was the only thing that burned worse than when wind would occasionally blow the fire to nip at his calloused palm. But he had learned a long time ago that you just keep turning until the pain goes away.

He had only described something as "good weird" once before. Ironically enough, both things he had now categorized under that sensation led him back to the lighter. He watched the first murky cloud billow out in front of him as he exhaled, momentarily getting lost in the way it seemed to dissolve into the air. He wondered about the rest of its journey. He knew where it started and how it had traveled thus far. But what now? Was it truly gone forever? Or was it simply getting sucked in by the force of his ceiling fan, struggling find its heroic release and carry on with its life? He focused on the apparatus in his hand again, releasing his hand from atop of the chamber and dropping his mouth to it instead. He inhaled slowly but deeply, letting the smoke become alive inside of him. It tickled at his throat and danced through his chest as he filled his lungs. This time as he let go he shut his eyes, relishing in the feeling rather than worrying about his new found friend's fate. He mentally bid it good luck as the last puff escaped his dry lips, followed with a lazy chuckle. He had always been prone to the giggles when smoking, even if there was nothing to laugh at. Something about the light innocence of laughter seemed to fuel his high even more. It reminded him of the way he felt that day as he looked into Tristan's comforting gaze and realized that for once he wasn't being left behind. Some growing force inside him was begging him to laugh. But he deemed it inappropriate and opted for a goofy, lopsided smile instead.

It was in that moment when he realized their story hadn't ended. Rather, it had just begun. He fumbled through a glass jar filled with the sweet substance, admiring the shade of green similar to Tristan's eyes. His fingers dropped some more into the bowl piece and he was back to fighting with the lighter once more. He thought about everything they had experienced together since that night - ditching class to make out in the green room, their first argument, driving around in his car at night with nothing but the stars guiding their way, overly competitive Just Dance battles, getting sick together and spending all day cuddled up watching horror movie reruns. Every memory thus far and the hope for those to come swallowed him with a feeling that could only begin to compare to the giddiness following a perfectly smooth hit.

Tristan was his natural high. Each moment spent with him kept his head up in the clouds where nothing could bring him down or hurt him. The tranquility was so real and natural, ensured to be there regardless of the day he had. A single second spent alone had began to make him feel deprived. He needed that feeling. So on those days he turned to his precious lighter and let the succulent smoke that arose from marijuana take him through the same thoughts every time. It was as close as he could get to reliving his favorite memory again and again. When he was finished, he would be sure not to leave a trace visible to the naked eye. He would mask the smell the best he could and tuck everything away into a drawer.

Except the lighter, which had found a permanent home in Miles' pocket since.


End file.
